Revenge of the Billionaire Heiress

Arabella

The first sign was how often Preston started texting.

Not with affection. With updates.

💬 Meeting ran over. Drinks with investors after. You'd hate it boring finance guys in worse suits.

💬 Forgot to tell you—ran into your brother Grant today. He said you're working nonstop.

Suddenly over-communicative in all the wrong ways too many texts, too few details.

💬 Babe. Work's insane but I'm thinking of us nonstop. Just a few more days of chaos.

💬 I've missed you. We've both just been… busy.

Arabella stared at the last message, unreadable.

They weren't just "busy." They were drifting. And Preston, with all his polished charm and curated perfection, was finally sensing it.

He didn't react with honesty.

He reacted with control.

💬 You're going to the Wintour fundraiser, right? We should go together. Press will eat it up.

She stared at the screen.

We should go together. Press will eat it up.

Not I want to be with you.

Not I miss you.

But press.

Classic.

It wasn't that she minded being a power couple in headlines. She'd grown up with it. But lately, their relationship felt like a PR stunt she hadn't signed up for. The sweet, spontaneous man she'd once called hers had been replaced by someone calculating, careful… and always one excuse away from disappearing.

She didn't reply right away.

Instead, she texted Emily.

💬 Preston wants to walk the red carpet with me at Whitney. Thoughts?

Emily:

💬 He wants the world to think you're still his. That's not the same as wanting YOU.

Arabella sighed. Brutal. But accurate.

The Wintour Fundraiser was less than 72 hours away, and the entire city was buzzing about it. It was held annually, organised by the wintour family, it was an evening of curated elegance, dripping diamonds, and power plays masked in velvet.

Arabella had chaired the planning committee three years ago to assist her Godmother, but this year, she was just attending.

That didn't stop Vogue from running an article headlined:

"Will Arabella Sinclair Once Again Redefine Modern Aristocracy?"

She rolled her eyes.

Later that night, her phone rang.

Preston. FaceTime.

She considered declining. Then picked up.

His face appeared—well-dressed, backlit by some dim, upscale lounge. There was a hint of clinking glasses and chatter in the background.

"Hey," he said, smoothing his hair. "Wanted to hear your voice."

"You're out."

"Work drinks," he said quickly. "Investors from London. Can't bail."

"You could've messaged."

"I figured I'd FaceTime. Show effort." He smirked, like it was charming.

She didn't return the smile.

"I booked a car for Saturday night," he continued. "We'll go to fundraiser together. I told my PR team to expect press. Thought we'd go classic black tux, you in red?"

She arched a brow. "I haven't picked a color yet."

"Whatever you wear, you'll steal the show." His tone was smooth. "But red gets the clicks."

There it was again. Strategy, not sincerity.

"Preston," she said evenly, "what exactly do you think we're doing here?"

"What do you mean?"

"This relationship. Us."

He blinked. "We've been busy. Things are tense. But this is just a phase. The fundraiser will remind people we're solid."

Remind people.

Not fix anything. Not heal. Just remind people.

"Right," she murmured. "See you Saturday."

She hung up before he could respond. She saw no point keeping the conversation going since all he cared about was actually what people thought and not their relationship itself.

The next morning, her fitting at the Elie Saab showroom was quiet, deliberate. She slipped into a hand-embroidered gold and pearl gown elegant, regal, and just modern enough to shut up anyone who dared whisper that she was "playing it safe."

She took a picture of herself in the dress and sent to her girls.

"You look like a duchess who could ruin someone's life with a single look," Ava texted after seeing a photo.

Arabella smiled faintly.

Good. She intended to.